Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPBV83185BT84CBEMQ7WNH

Aurora Carter slid onto a stool at the end of the bar, surrendering to the familiar comfort of The Raven's Nest's worn leather. The distinctive green neon sign above the entrance cast an eerie glow on the rain-soaked pavement outside, while inside, the scent of old wood and whiskey enveloped her like a warm hug. Silas, polishing a glass with a white cloth, caught her eye and nodded in greeting, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. "The usual, Rory?" he asked, already reaching for the bottle of gin. "Just water, please, Si," she replied, shaking her head, her straight black hair swinging around her shoulders. As Silas poured her a glass of ice water, the door swung open, admitting a chill and a stranger. Not entirely a stranger, Rory realized, her bright blue eyes narrowing as the man's gaze swept the room, locking onto hers with a jolt of recognition. "Evan," she said, the name tasting bitter on her lips. Silas, sensing a shift in the atmosphere, paused, his eyes flicking between them before he set Rory's water down, his movements economical. Evan, once the epitome of boyish charm, now stood before her, transformed. His sharp jawline was softer, his eyes, once bright with enthusiasm, now seemed dulled, weighed down by the passage of time. The fashionable haircut and tailored coat couldn't disguise the air of weariness clinging to him like a shroud. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the sounds of the bar – the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses – receding into the background. With a quiet confidence that belied the turmoil brewing inside her, Rory motioned to the stool beside her. "Join me?" The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Evan approached, his eyes never leaving hers, and sat down, the stool creaking softly under his weight. Silas, ever the observant host, retreated, busying himself at the far end of the bar, though Rory sensed his attention remained fixed on their little tableau. "It's been a long time," Evan ventured, breaking the silence, his voice deeper, a little rougher, than she remembered. Rory sipped her water, the ice clinking against her teeth. "Years," she agreed, the word concise, devoid of emotion. Awkwardness settled between them like a physical presence, making the air thick and hard to breathe. They had once been inseparable, their friendship forged in the tumultuous crucible of adolescence. But life, in its inexorable march forward, had seen them drift apart, until the only thing remaining was the jagged, painful memory of their final confrontation. Evan, it seemed, was determined to bridge the chasm. "You look... different," he said, his gaze tracing the contours of her face, lingering on the small, crescent-shaped scar above her left wrist – a souvenir from a long-forgotten childhood escapade. Rory's lips curled into a wry smile. "Time does that, I suppose." Her eyes, however, remained guarded, a barrier against the nostalgia threatening to overwhelm her. The conversation stumbled forward, hesitant and stilted, as they groped for common ground. Evan spoke of his career, of the high-stakes world he now inhabited, his words painting a picture of a man driven, yet unfulfilled. Rory listened intently, her expression a mask of polite interest, all the while her mind recoiling from the tangible aura of discontent enveloping him. As the night wore on, the bar's clientele ebbed and flowed, yet they remained, suspended in their private bubble of unresolved tension. It was Evan who finally broached the subject they had both been avoiding. "Rory, about what happened –" Her hand, resting on the counter, tensed, the small scar on her wrist seeming to throb in anticipation. "There's nothing to discuss, Evan," she interrupted, her voice even, yet laced with a subtle warning. "Water under the bridge." The lie hung in the air, stark and obvious. Evan's eyes, for an instant, flashed with the old spark, the one she remembered, before he looked away, his jaw working in suppressed emotion. In that moment, Rory felt the weight of time bear down upon her – the accumulation of years, of choices made and paths not taken. Regret, sharp as a blade, sliced through her defenses, leaving her breathless. She had thought herself long healed, the wounds of their past relationship scarred over, yet the ache, it seemed, still lingered, waiting to ambush her when she least expected it. As the evening drew to a close, Evan pushed his stool back, the sound echoing through the now-quiet bar. "I should go," he said, his voice low, resigned. Rory nodded, a small, curt movement. "Yes." At the door, Evan turned, his eyes locking onto hers once more. "Take care of yourself, Rory," he said, the words simple, yet freighted with a depth of feeling that made her chest constrict. "You too, Evan," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. With that, he stepped out into the London night, leaving Rory alone with her thoughts, the only sound the soft clinking of glasses as Silas, ever the silent observer, began his closing routine, the weight of their unresolved past hanging in the air like the promise of rain.